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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304763">Drought</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposablePaperCup/pseuds/DisposablePaperCup'>DisposablePaperCup</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Commissioned [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Apocalypse, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Feels, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Survival, Time Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:49:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304763</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposablePaperCup/pseuds/DisposablePaperCup</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Drought /drout/<br/>noun<br/>1.<br/>a prolonged period of abnormally low rainfall, leading to a shortage of water.</p><p>Or, </p><p>It turns out the apocalypse isn't as empty as Five first thought.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dolores/Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Other Relationships</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Commissioned [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911238</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Drought</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Day 113 of the apocalypse started as usual, with the sun rising above the horizon line to continue its work scorching the Earth, tending to the rampaging fires and withering heat with the intricate care of a doting mother. It was ironic really - the way the sun allowed the destruction and desolation to ravage the Earth it once cared for, burning away the few fickle remnants of water and life.</p><p>The Sun had changed in a way - though, physically, it stayed exactly the same, the Earth plotting the same course around it day after day. Or maybe it was the sky that had changed? The glaringly obvious gaping hole in the ozone layer was a major factor, of course, and it let in the sunlight more fiercely than it ever had. Maybe it was a combination of all of those things, tearing the fragile atmosphere into shreds and raining fire down onto the rubble of humanity’s empire.</p><p>Or maybe making metaphors and spiraling down a rabbit hole of poetic lamentations was a waste of time.</p><p>Five was probably biased, considering he needed water and an average temperature of 70 to 90 degrees Fahrenheit to keep him from dying of heatstroke. It was definitely a lot hotter than the ideal temperature - though the only thermometer he’d found was broken, and had shot up to 102 before it supposedly shattered when a dresser fell and cracked it in half, so it might not have been incredibly accurate. </p><p>Five was currently taking inventory, bandana wrapped around his face to keep the lingering flecks of ash from invading his lungs. His base was fashioned out of the remains of a library - if the crumbled, black, thinly layered hunks of ash that were once books were any indicator of the building’s function. A desk made from three-quarters of a table and a few stacks of bricks was pressed up against one wall, covered in mathematical scribbles and dried up markers.</p><p>His base was actually quite a point of pride - a full 28 days (exactly) had gone into making it durable enough to withstand the average sandstorm and keep the searing sunlight out. So far, his hard work had paid off tremendously, and he had yet to see the fortifications he’d built fail. </p><p>The only main issue was the area Dolores had lovingly named the ‘foyer’. The part where the front of the library had crumbled away, leaving little but two and a half walls and nothing but rubble for the floor. It left the base vulnerable to sandstorms and the choking heat, so Five had gone to work clearing away most of the bricks and rebar to set up thick tarps along the area where the roof connected to the remainder of the walls. They thankfully kept out most dust and ash and made a convenient doorway of sorts to head out and go scavenging.</p><p>This was where Five was now, shuffling through cans and containers, muttering under his breath. He mentally took stock of everything - three cans of green beans, two cans of peaches, one can of baked beans, four granola bars, and two bottles of water, both wrapped up in scraps of cloth to keep them safe from the heat. </p><p>Water was a precious resource, with some sparse reservoirs being undrinkable or reduced to a mushy sludge, while the majority of it had evaporated into the atmosphere. Five had to allocate supplies exclusively for the quick and efficient collection of water - especially when any puddles could be there one second and gone the next, having sunk into the dust near-instantly. It was impossible to collect it when it was all mud, after all.</p><p>The bandana around his face was already slick with sweat, and Five tugged at the fabric to relieve the itch around his neck. His bag was full of supplies - his haphazard first aid kit, a few protein bars, and a piece of glass wrapped in duct tape he could use as a weapon in a pinch. He paused for just a second, thinking, before swiping one of the water bottles and shoving it in next to the cloth-funnel-jar contraption he’d set up for collecting water.</p><p>His meager box of food was shoved under his ‘desk’ and covered it with a thin chunk of drywall. Call him paranoid but he wasn’t willing to risk any - <em> nonexistent</em>, as Dolores insisted - scavengers coming in and stealing the few supplies he had to his name.</p><p>“Alright,” He mumbled, pulling on his backpack and lowering his goggles over his eyes, “I’ll be back before it’s dark, Dolores.”</p><p><em> Be careful</em>, her lilting, melodic voice carried from her perch on the shambling pile of cloth he called a bed, <em> Come back early if it gets too hot. And make sure you hydrate. </em></p><p>He rolled his eyes, but happiness lovingly fluttered in his chest at her concern, “Yeah, yeah. I know what I’m doing.” <em> Love you</em>, he added silently.</p><p>Dolores smiled softly, as though she knew what he left unsaid. She always was observant like that. Five smiled silently at her gentle waving as he pulled back the tarp and stepped out into the ashy nothing that was the end of the world.</p><p>The heat was immediate and fierce, twice as stifling as it was inside the library - though cooler than most days, around 95, maybe? Five took a deep breath through the bandana, the fabric dry and stale as it clung to his face. The air wasn’t much better - any moisture it held was sapped away as quickly as it came. Five had once tried to gather water through condensation, but that experiment ended in a massive waste of time and materials. </p><p>He wandered through the library foyer, climbing up over the small mound of rubble and glass piled at the front. Not for the first time he was grateful for the mismatched welding gloves he wore as sharp shards dug into the fabric when he pulled himself up and over. Dolores had insisted he take them when he stumbled across them initially - he'd have to thank her again later.</p><p>The area around the library was thoroughly picked over, so he easily bypassed the rubble to rip the canvas away from a rusty, beaten down red wagon he'd been using since day 3. It was a reliable old thing, but Five had taken extensive measures (aka: a shit ton of duct tape) to make sure it wouldn't break at an inopportune time.</p><p>He tugged the wagon out from under the little lean-to Dolores had also named the 'garage'. Five was starting to realize she seemed to like that kind of cozy domestic touch. He didn’t see much sense in it - the world was <em>over</em>, so why both clinging to those kinds of sentiments? - but he had enough sense not to argue with her about it. She didn’t exactly have much to be sentimental about, after all. </p><p>The wagon was all but empty, with only a spare wheel and more duct tape for emergencies. If the day went well, Five would return with it mostly full, with supplies and food littering the cart.</p><p>The path wasn't easy going by any means - the buildings had crumbled down to the foundations and the roads had been torn to shreds - but a bumpy, rusted wagon was better than carrying everything back by hand. He would just tug roughly on the handle whenever it got caught on something and hope it wouldn't get stuck too bad so he wouldn't lose daylight. </p><p>He made his way along a familiar route, mentally running through the supply list in his head - he hoped to find a few specific things, though he'd take anything he could get. There was a convenience store he had yet to check out just across from the distinct ruins of an arcade, and Five was betting he'd find something there among the crippled building's remains. </p><p>Fifteen minutes of walking and Five was glad for Dolores' reminder to stay hydrated and watch the heat. Sweat was dribbling down the back of his neck and face, and he had to physically stop himself from ripping off his bandana and hat just for a bit of relief - he'd learned his lesson about the torturous ache that came with severe sunburn on day 22.</p><p>The mound of dull, once-colorful brick and matted psychedelic carpet that was the arcade was coming up on his right, resembling the closest thing to a distinct landmark in a world where every pile of crumbled concrete and rebar looked the same. Five had long since stripped the arcade of its loot - he'd made off with some of the bits and pieces of patterned fabric that were once stuffed animals to flesh out his bed. He was sure they were still shoved into the mound of cloth somewhere if he ever bothered to clean it up. </p><p>The convenience store was just around the corner, which was still three walls and half a roof, so Five was - oddly enough - optimistic. The sun continued to beat down ferociously, radiating heat waves off the ground and sending sweat dripping into his eyes. He paused to lift his goggles and wipe it away, silently mourning the waste of precious water. </p><p>He briefly contemplated pulling out his canteen to take a quick drink, but decided against it - he would be under shade soon enough. </p><p>The convenience store was as lifeless and dreary as any other building, an almost startling contrast to the neon-lights and brand names and popping colors it undoubtedly once sported. Five wasted no time, parking his wagon as close as he could without needing to heave it over the larger chunks of rubble and ducked into the remains of the building.</p><p>His first impression of the store was that it was a few degrees cooler than outside, and he gratefully tugged the bandana down around his neck. His skin was still slick with sweat from the dry, stagnant heat, but he ignored it in favor of digging through the crumbled chunks of the ceiling and wall.</p><p>Half an hour later he dug out a single can of baked beans, the brand name scraped and unrecognizable on the dull brown label. Not a big haul, but more than he was hoping for, so he’d take what he could get. It wasn’t the most nutritious meal either, but calories were calories and he headed back out to set the can in his wagon.</p><p>The blistering heat quickly and harshly reminded him to put his bandana back on. The stifling, sweat-drenched fabric did nothing to cool him off in the slightest, but he ignored the uncomfortable sensation in favor of slinging the backpack off his shoulder and digging through it. </p><p>On day 12 Dolores had given him the idea to start using maps, marking landmarks and possible shelters - anything that might be of help in an emergency situation. It was incredibly useful and had gotten Five out of more than one pinch before, so he kept up the habit even when his original map went up in flames some time on day 36.</p><p>The current map he had was the fourth and was cobbled together out of the remains of maps two and three and strips of paper not yet reduced to ash. This map held more information than the previous maps combined - Five was quite proud of it, really - and had future spots to investigate or scavenge also jotted down in the form of little scribbled stars.</p><p>A quick mental calculation and Five figured he had enough time to get to the closest star before it got too dark, hopefully with enough time to get some equations done once he was back at the library. </p><p>Five nodded to himself, folding the map carefully and sliding it into his bag. The action caused a swimming headache to burn above his eyes, and sweat dribbled profusely down his face. He blinked quickly, black spots dancing at the edge of his vision.</p><p>He had half a mind to sigh in annoyance but saved his breath to pop the cap off his canteen and take a swig. He really had to be better about hydration - he would get an earful from Dolores later, he was sure.</p><p>The water, albeit grainy and warm, was <em>heavenly </em>on his cracked lips. A small, animalistic part of him begged to <em>drink</em>-<em>drink-drink </em>but he forced it away. He’d gotten used to shoving aside the panicked, frantic thoughts that came with common things like starvation and dehydration. It still squirmed in its small sectioned-off corner of his mind, fighting with the rational thoughts he sent its way. </p><p>The rational part of his brain won out in the end and he capped off his canteen, letting it swing back to his side. His bag was hoisted back onto his shoulders and he started walking down the street yet again, wagon metallically jangling in an odd rhythmic facsimile of music. Five nearly started humming.</p><p>The sun was higher in the sky now, around noon or so. Five raised a hand to glance around, taking in the raised piles of concrete and metal with all the nonchalance of a tourist viewing a museum. </p><p>If the museum in question was populated with rotting corpses and the exhibits were all variations of the same memoir of horrific carnage, that is. </p><p>His head slowly swiveled as he looked around, vague shadowy silhouettes moving in the waves of radiating heat. The mountains of rubble were as stoic and silent as ever, but Five figured his mind must be getting bored as quiet, distant voices whispered incoherently in his ears. </p><p>Everything was dark against the sun, black blobs warping oddly in front of the gray-red sky. The voices were chattering excitedly now, the rattling and crunching sounds likely provided by the cans in his wagon and his own footsteps, respectively.</p><p>The silhouettes shifted dramatically - almost moving-</p><p>
  <em> Moving. </em>
</p><p>They were moving - actually, really <em>moving</em>. Five froze immediately, hand reaching for the blade in his pocket. His subconscious screamed that <em>it wouldn’t be enough </em> - what good would fighting back with a tiny little blade do? He stumbled back fearfully as the silhouettes defined into something tangible - something <em>alive</em>.</p><p>Realization struck him like a slap to the face because these were <em>people </em> - actual, living, flesh and blood, <em> people</em>. </p><p>His eyes adjusted quickly as he flicked out his measly pocket knife, eyes glancing frantically at the figures. Blood roared in his ears, mind scrambling - there were three people, one close and two medium distance, so if he took out the closest he could jump and-</p><p>"-d?"</p><p>There weren't <em>people </em>in the <em>apocalypse </em> - Five was the only one left, he'd done <em>probability maps </em>to be absolutely sure of that. Everyone was either a charred, smoking corpse or a dry husk of a dead body, <em> no </em>in-betweens, <em> no </em>exceptions.</p><p>"-id. Kid! Hey, we're not here to hurt you." </p><p>Five was suddenly, <em> acutely </em>aware of how close the person was to him. </p><p>He lashed out, knife flickering wildly and he stumbled away, wagon all but forgotten. The attacke-strang-<em>person </em>yelped and retreated, the others startling and freezing in place. Five held the tiny, <em> useless </em>blade in front of him, arms trembling no matter how hard he willed them to <em>stop shaking, dammit- </em></p><p>"Kid?"</p><p>Five snapped to attention, trying to look as intimidating as possible with all five feet and three inches of his body bristled out, looking for all the world like a mangy, frightened cat. The stranger’s face was half-covered by a scarf and their eyes were shaded in the lighting but they raised their hands placatingly.</p><p>Then his brain caught up all at once and his arms dropped to his sides.</p><p><em> People</em>. There were <em>other people </em>here, alive and living and <em>surviving </em>and in the same damned toxic fire-and-brimstone armageddon as Five was. </p><p>The knife dropped to the dirt and Five was vaguely aware he dropped down with it, leaning back on his ankles and feeling completely, utterly out of his depth. The stranger was squatting down next to him, saying something that was lost to the roar of blood and the instant, addicting sensation of <em>relief </em>spiraling in Five’s ears. </p><p>There were other people coming, though Five kept staring blankly at the dirt, wishing so desperately that Dolores was here with him - she always had the right advice for him when he needed it. </p><p>None of the strangers dared touch him. He was thankful for that. Their conversation was lost in his head, words morphing into muffled verbal blurbs and half-formed syllables. Five was <em>submerged</em>. Water swimming in his ears and eyes and swirling around his body and he could barely find it in him to <em>breathe </em>because there were <em>people and there wasn’t any way there could be people and- </em></p><p>“Kid?” </p><p>His head slowly moved up. The stranger came into focus slowly, though still muffled around the edges as Five’s brain worked itself into overdrive. Their voice was soothing, calm, and commanding but not unkind.</p><p>“Hey, we’re gonna help you, alright? Can you stand?” </p><p>He did so, mechanically setting his feet underneath him and straightening to his full height, but feeling as small as ever.</p><p>“Okay, good. Listen, is there anyone else with you?”</p><p>Five doesn’t speak. He wants to - wants to tell them about Dolores because he <em>needs her here </em>with him, to help him out of this spiral he’s heading into and he <em>needs her</em>.</p><p>But he doesn’t. Because if he opens his mouth he’ll drown - water will flood his lungs and choke the life from his body and he’ll <em>drift away and he’ll die- </em></p><p>“Okay, that’s alright, you don’t have to talk,” There’s more muttering, whispered between two of the strangers in a quick, conspiratorial tone of voice. Then, “We’re going to help you, okay? Our camp isn’t too far from here. You’re gonna be just fine. You’re not alone anymore, kid.”</p><p><em> Not alone</em>.</p><p>Over the years, ‘alone’ had changed in definition. At first, ‘alone’ meant being separated from his family, having to bury their lifeless bodies under chunks of rubble. It meant having no way home, no other voices to distract from the apocalypse’s cruel, crippling <em>quiet</em>. Then came Dolores, and then ‘alone’ meant being away from her. It meant being out scouring desperately for a single scrap of food, for a nest of spiders or roaches he could cram down his throat just to have <em>something </em>to eat while she waited for him back at the library. Back <em>home</em>.</p><p>‘Not alone’, the stranger said. And Five’s definition of ‘alone’ started changing again. It had changed from being the last person on Earth to being away from the only <em>other </em>person on Earth. Now it was something different.</p><p>‘Alone’ now meant being without other people. Without other voices to fill the gaping silence. ‘Alone’ was entirely different now, a sentient, changing thing. A looming figure that watched and weighed down on Five in a way that hung on his very core.</p><p>And Five knew that right now, right here, was where ‘alone’ wasn’t.</p><p>
  <em> Five wasn’t alone anymore. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have successfully wrangled my muse (who roughly resembles Jörmungandr the Midgard serpent in terms of how slippery it is) into helping me out here and now I've got this so let's see if I can't bang out the next chapter before it slinks off into the ocean again.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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